


Sympathy for the Devil

by x_filth_x



Category: The Boy (2016 Bell)
Genre: F/M, Hopefully it's ok, don't want to spoil, fear kink, haven't written anything in a long time, sexually frustrated brahms, so yeah..
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 05:17:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14348739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_filth_x/pseuds/x_filth_x
Summary: On a dare from your best friend you decide to spend one night in the Heelshire house.A spin-off of the fanfic 'The Walls, They Breathe Hot' by FancyLadySnackCakes





	Sympathy for the Devil

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Walls, They Breathe Hot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14255817) by [FancyLadySnackCakes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyLadySnackCakes/pseuds/FancyLadySnackCakes). 



> This is a spin-off from the fanfic by FancyLadySnackCakes so if you don't want it spoiled go read it first! It's the prologue to this story because I just liked how it left off.. let me know if there are any weird errors :D

“I dare you to spend one night in that house.”

You turn to your friend your eyebrows shooting up nearly to your hairline in disbelief. “Why the hell would I ever do that?” 

She gives you 'The Look' the one that says "Don't bullshit me kiddo." You both know how the Heelshire house is quite the topic of gossip.  _Your_ kind of gossip. You love horror anything and since families came and went from that place like clock-work all of them saying basically the same thing.

Something isn't right about that house.

Recently, a girl went to live there with her family then not long after brutally murdered them. By the time hospice arrived as scheduled to care for the girl’s mother, the aunt and uncle had been decomposing for at least two weeks in their bedroom and the mother had apparently received an overdose of morphine administered by her daughter after killing her aunt and uncle.

The entire mess was quickly resolved despite the girl claiming there was another man there named Brahms. She had admitted to giving the lethal injection to her mother but insisted this Brahms had killed her aunt and uncle because he believed he was protecting her.

Brahms being none other than the son that had supposedly died over twenty years ago.

However, while the authorities had investigated, they’d found no evidence to the contrary that anyone other than the girl and her family had been living there. She also had a history of mental issues which only further supported the idea that she herself had committed the murders. The last you’d heard she was currently undergoing mental evaluation.

“Uh, because you’d be the ultimate badass. And as a bonus I’d even give you that jacket you’ve wanted for so long. _And_ like you're not dying to check it out anyway.”

Of course you were.

You don't tell her that.

“The leather one with the purple lace on the sleeves?” you say instead, pretending to show more interest in the jacket.

She nods sagely before issuing her challenge a second time, “So, I dare you to stay there for _one whole night_ and then report to me early tomorrow morning about your experience.”

You think hard. You _have_ wanted that jacket for years and it _has_ been about six weeks since the police have cleared out and left the house abandoned. And, God, how you've wanted a chance to look inside the house. 

“Ok,” you concede.

At your friend’s look of excitement you continue, “But you have to throw in the fingerless gloves that match.”

“Deal,” she says. “You’re fucking mental by the way. If you put as much effort into getting my jacket as you did getting a boyfriend I wouldn’t have to hear about your dry streak every time we go out.”

You open the door of the car rolling your eyes a little at your friend's unnecessary comment.

Yes you wanted to get laid.

Yes you also wanted to watch your Nightmare On Elm Street blu-ray collection you'd bought on the way home from work the other day on sale. You were always too tired to watch during the week and you'd planned on giving it a go this weekend but why watch when you could live it? 

"You're sick!" your friend shouts after you. "Fear junkie!"

"What the fuck do you know?" you cry, over-dramatic.

Now it's  _her_ turn to roll her eyes, "Five o' clock sharp! Don't die!"

Her last words before driving off.

So maybe you liked to brush up on the lore surrounding the house. You knew everything there was to know about the rumors. Brahms, the dead girl, the fire. All very mysterious.

 

 

The tatters of the tape the police used to barricade off the entryway still flap listlessly in the gentle breeze that stirs your hair. The place is more like a castle than a house, you think. What secrets would you find within? Your mouth goes dry when you see the front door is slightly ajar. 

Your clammy fingers have difficulty gripping your keys until you find the pen light attached to your key ring.

You step inside.

The scent of death still hangs - if very faintly – in the air and all the little hairs at your nape stand on end. Your animal instinct telling you something is very fucking wrong and you definitely shouldn’t be here you stupid shit.

_But mama didn’t raise no pussy._

You smile weakly at your mind’s attempt at trying to distract you. Three very real very alive people had died here recently and here you were exploring their house just for the sick thrill.

Because, yes, this _was_ exciting.

The possibility that something else might have happened that the authorities didn’t know about. That someone or _something_ resided in the house right at that moment made your stomach do summersaults. Maybe it’s a ghost that possessed that girl and drove her mad.

You’re almost giddy with excitement as you sweep the first floor. The shine of glass animal eyes reflect back at you from their taxidermied sockets and seem to be everywhere.

Whoever lived here originally must have really been into hunting. Or dead shit. Whatever.

Was there really a difference?

On the second floor you discovered one of the creepiest paintings you’d ever fucking seen, presumably of the Heelshires. While nothing about it was obviously out of place – it depicted a family; parents and their son – there was just _something_ off. The artist had given a cherubic smile to the little boy (Brahms) but it didn’t seem to reach his eyes.

Almost like a mask.

You quickly look away expecting it to come to life, your over-excited imagination weaving gruesome imagery of the cops finding another body the next morning.

Yet more creepy ass paintings and taxidermy greeted you as you explored the second floor; the scent of death getting stronger as you went. You wondered why none of the later owners had tried redecorating. Maybe it just never felt like home to them.

Seeing it for yourself; you couldn't exactly blame them for feeling uneasy.

Yes it was beautiful even more so from the outside, unfortunately, decay had set in and taken it's toll on the inside. The scent of musty wood mingles with the cloying scent of decomposing flesh. The atmosphere had your teeth on edge.

You stood at the door of the bedroom where the aunt and uncle were killed; the smell where something had died was the strongest here.

It was closed – for that you were grateful it gave you more time to prepare yourself for what lay inside. You’d intentionally spent as much time as possible examining the other rooms first because you were scared. Who the hell wouldn’t be?

You may be into horror but you weren't completely insane.

But you were here, after all, for a full night.

So maybe you were a bit mental.

You grip the knob with sweat slicked fingers and turn pushing it hard so that all at once two things happened. At the moment the door banged the wall upon opening your eyes fell on the figure of a small boy sitting across the room.

You screamed, the pen light slipping from your fingers causing further confusion as you scramble to pick it back up not able to see. Your frantic breathing and half screams quickly turn to crazed giggling as you realize what’s frightened you.

A doll.

A doll in the likeness of a boy and as you squint your eyes you also come to the conclusion that it’s been made to look like the boy from the painting. It doesn’t make it any less fucking unsettling. Whoever had made it had tried for realism but fell just short in the worst way. It’s head was even turned to look at the doorway, it’s sightless eyes staring you down.

It was then that you notice the blood. You’re standing in some of it actually and quickly move. It’s dried and streaked out into the hallway; a clear indicator that someone had tried to crawl while grievously injured. You wondered why cleaners hadn’t been to deal with the mess as you notice more and more blood next to the bed. The mattress itself is missing the doll sitting on the box spring where it was. You have no idea why the police or whoever had been in here last would have left it there.

_Because they didn’t._

The words float through your mind and you suddenly very much don’t want to be anywhere near here anymore surrounded by death and judged by a creepy fucking doll. 

Fuck, this was exciting.

You were glad you'd decided to stay.

 

 

You rub your eyes and take a deep breath. It wasn’t even fully dark when you came in the sun was just starting to set. A glance at the window tells you that won’t be the case much longer so you need to find a suitable place to sleep - if that were possible. There were candles scattered around everywhere and you just so happened to carry a zippo lighter your grandfather had given you before he passed. It had always been your good luck charm that went everywhere you did.

You light the candles over the mantle and on the side table so you can conserve battery power and to avoid turning the lights on just in case somebody does turn up they don't see you.

You decided to try sleeping in the lounge on the sofa which was a little too short to lie down comfortably so that you had to pull up your knees to fit. It was still too early for you to try going to bed just yet so you decided to investigate the kitchen.

You tossed your messenger bag on the sofa and went in search of food. There was very little of anything left. Mostly eaten boxes of cereal, some moldy bread, and random canned vegetables. The fridge was totally barren.

You sigh taking out your phone going to unlock it when you realize you've made a horrible mistake; you'd completely forgotten to charge it,  _again._

"Fuck," you mutter. "What kind of horror plot device cliche bullshit.."

Resigned, you go back to the lounge but whatever you planned on doing is forgotten. The contents of your messenger bag are all over the room. Spread out over the sofa and all over the floor. Some things like your chap stick and a candy bar you don’t even remember buying were intentionally placed on the coffee table side by side. Chills crawl up and down your spine as the beam of the pen light sways back in forth in your trembling hand.

The doll sits in the chair next to the sofa offering no comment as to what happened.

You laugh, a desperate sound that turns to a sob. You’re on the verge of full blown panic; something you can’t afford right now. Whatever this is you need to be clear headed.

As much as you hoped to see a ghost something tells you that isn't what's going on here.

“Who..” you begin but your throat is too tight to force the words up and out so you have to try again. “Who’s there?”

A question barely more than a choked whisper answered only by silence.  Scenarios are rapidly playing out in your mind. What should I do? Should I stay in here? Should I go outside?

While the idea of getting the fuck out of the house was very appealing the area was surrounded by woods and the only light you had was your pen light and the candles. You’d be easy prey in territory you aren't familiar with.

If you stayed in and tried to barricade the door you maybe stood a chance until morning and your friend. So that’s what you did.

You grabbed the chair, the doll tumbling out of it to the floor, and blocked the door jamming the back under the knob. You’d stopped trembling as much now that you had some sense of safety. Taking a deep breath you checked out the window. It was pitch black; you couldn’t see a thing.

*

After a while to your surprise your eyelids start to feel heavy.

Somehow you’re actually getting fucking sleepy. Maybe it’s too much excitement and you feel absurd like you’re eighty years old and you’ve watched too many episodes of Jeopardy. _Maybe you should be wearing a fanny pack instead of a messenger bag_ , you think, your eyes almost slipping closed for a second. _If you had maybe this wouldn’t have happened._

Right as you’re almost asleep you hear a boy’s voice. At first, you think maybe you _are_ asleep and this is some kind of fucked up nightmare; the final product of everything that’s happened so far. 

But when you hear it again, this time much louder and closer you lurch to your feet. 

_“What are you doing in my house?”_

Your eyes dart wildly to the doll still lying in the floor from earlier expecting it to turn it’s head around a full three-sixty and start floating around the room.

_“Are you here to put me to bed?”_

No, it’s coming from the other side of the door. In a bold move you get a little closer to the blocked door before speaking, “Who are you?” You mentally high five yourself for how confident you sound because you sure don’t feel that way right now. There’s a pause before he answers.

_“Brahms.”_

Oh _fuck._

You don’t even know what to make of this. Hadn't the girl from before claimed there was a  _man_ living here? So then why does he sound like a little boy?

_“Or.. maybe you want to play instead?”_

As if he knows exactly where you’re standing the words are a low rasp, no longer child-like, and _right next to your ear._ You launch backwards as if the door has turned to living spiders getting as far away as you can.

You expect the man, child, whatever to come crashing into the room at any second but after several seconds pass nothing happens. After several minutes you get the feeling he’s gone and that’s more worrying than knowing where he is. Still, if you stay inside this room then you’ll probably be just fine.

 _Probably_.

Your every instinct tells you to just break the window and escape outside. But what if he’s out there right now waiting? If he is should you try to flank around and get out the front door instead? But then-

“Fuck!”

You shout the expletive not caring who hears kicking your messenger bag across the room. The possibility of him, of _Brahms_ , getting into the room is very real. So you needed to think. Maybe find a weapon and-

_“I’ll be good. I promise.”_

Brahms’ voice sounds from just outside, innocent and child-like once more, and you swallow a small scream. 

 

 

“Brahms?”

Your voice is tight and controlled as you can manage. Disturbingly, as afraid as you are, deep down this is still _exciting_ to you. Nothing like this has ever happened to you before and yes in a way you might actually be enjoying it even.

A side of you that you thought you’d long grown out of is rearing it’s ugly head at the worst time possible. Back when you were much too young you watched your first R-rated horror movie. Even though it had fucked you up for days after, once that feeling faded you started to miss it in a way.

You didn’t know how to explain it or justify it to yourself. You’d _liked_ feeling that fear. It wasn’t normal. It wasn’t like you just took pleasure in watching horror movies; it was something more. Racing heart, sweat, trembling hands. All those things had given way to something new; you’d gotten wet for the first time. You’d heard at school from the other girls what this meant and you were mortified.

You'd discovered sexual pleasure in being afraid.

But as you’d gotten older you’d sought out that feeling again. You’d even tried roleplaying with a couple of your exes. Being chased, threatened, tied up and feeling the cold chill of knife’s icy kiss between your breasts made you ache.

In all of those scenarios you’d thought it was because deep down you knew it was all artificial. The knowledge that no harm could ever actually come to you. All controlled situations.

Unlike this.

So why does your lower belly feel tight enough to come undone already? Your panties soaked through with the shame of your lust. Hell, your head is practically swimming from arousal and terror together overwhelming.

 _“Please. It’s been_ so _long since anyone has come to play with me. I’m so lonely.”_

You’re so caught up in yourself it takes several seconds for you to register that the voice is no longer coming from the other side of the door. You gasp and whirl around flattening yourself back against the wall.

In the shadows you see him, his outline the only thing visible.

How he got in without you noticing or how he got in at all is a mystery because the thing you notice first about him is that he's fucking _big_. Brahms steps forward almost timidly, arms at his sides, his head slightly bowed. You feel your eyes widen as he moves into the flickering light from the candles.

Neither of you say anything as you take in his appearance.

You can’t take your eyes off of his mask; it resembles the doll’s face which you now know for certain was made to look like Brahms. Only, the mask is made to look, you assume, older. But no less fucking creepy.

It’s all so strange.

You press your thighs together harder.

It may have only been a trick of the light but it seemed like Brahms noticed your discomfort, his eyes flicking down from yours for an instant then back up.

It’s all _too real_ you’re practically squirming on the spot. You want to run away. You want to let things run their course. Brahms is still watching you intently, his eyes glittering from the darkness of the mask’s eye sockets.

 _“..can we play now?”_ Brahms tilts his head slightly in question.

Truly disturbing seeing this tall, intimidating man speaking and acting as a child; the most bizarre thing you can recall seeing. You wonder what made him this way. Still, you knew deep down what he was getting at. And it wasn’t a game of fucking Uno.

The real reason why the girl from before made it out with her life if not her sanity.

You bite the inside of your cheek coming to a decision, your heart threatening to burst out of your chest, you nod once.

Brahms moves closer, now, in his eagerness his timid behavior seems to fall away. An act perhaps to gauge your reaction.

Whereas you can’t move an inch from where you’re pressed back so hard into the wall it hurts. You risk a look at the door where the chair still blocks you in and right as Brahms has the sofa between you and him you make your move.

You throw the chair twisting the door knob hard and-

-nothing happens.

In disbelief you try again wrenching it back and forth but still nothing is happening. “Fucking open!” you shout, frustrated. Something cold trails along the back of your neck and you jump, moving away.

Brahms is dangling the key near where you were standing and he actually fucking _giggles_. He’s locked you in from the outside earlier on at some point when you weren’t paying attention. He tosses it into the fireplace carelessly.

Oh, _fuck._

Again, your back is against the wall and Brahms is advancing on you. There’s no way out. Wetness trails down your leg painting your guilt in a line of your own fluids. You taste blood from biting your cheek so hard trying to ground yourself and ignore what your body really wants.

A wild thought flies through your mind; how would he react if you slipped a hand into your pants right now? You’d always imagined something watching from the dark corners of your bedroom when you touched yourself, throwing the covers off so your imaginary voyeur could see everything.

Brahms is right in front of you, his front hidden in shadow but the sound of his breathing, nearly panting, tells you everything you need to know. Timidly, you reach up and press your fingers against the side of his mask tracing cool porcelain needing to confirm that this is really happening more than anything.

Not a movie or something you're imagining to rub out a quickie so you can fall asleep.

He sighs and leans into it ever so slightly as if he can actually feel your touch. You move lower over his chest, through the coarse hair there, over his stomach and you pause. The room seems to get several degrees hotter. Brahms has gone very still as well, waiting.

His breathing is very ragged like yours.

So you keep going.

You rake up his shirt tracing the hair trailing over his stomach and down into his pants. Brahms is wet too from precum, hot and sticky as it coats your fingers. Apparently, you’re not the only one that’s really fucking turned on right now.

Just as you thought  _this_ is what Brahms meant by playing.

You push him back towards the sofa and he doesn’t resist as you indicate for him to sit. He reminds you of the doll like this; his hands at his sides obediently letting you do whatever you want.

The candles cast everything into hard shadow making it seem as if you’ve fallen into some Victorian story book. Not the twenty-first century where you’re locked in a room with a psychopath.

 

Brahms’ pants open easily and you take him in hand enjoying the feeling of hot flesh pulsing with blood, slick with arousal. He groans, his legs parting slightly as you jerk him off a little harder than necessary. Even the sounds he makes are pleasurable, his attempts to remain in character failing and giving way to his masculine urges.

You waste no time climbing into his lap, straddling him, your hand never breaking rhythm. Brahms lifts his head from where it’s fallen back to look at you with eyes shrouded in darkness. It’s unsettling to say the least.

You push up his tank top the rest of the way wanting to see more. You sit back taking in the sight of him; hardened muscle, his chest heaving slightly, and hard swollen cock tipped to the side where it rests against his belly.

And _the mask_. Dear God, not even _your_ imagination could have came up with something like this.

Someone so perfectly suited to your needs.

_“Please.. don’t stop..”_

It’s startling to hear him using a child’s voice again in this situation. It doesn’t make your cunt tighten any less in your desire to be filled.

You shakily drag off your jeans taking your panties with them. The air hitting your bare skin raises goosebumps all over your body. It’s like a splash of ice water snapping you back to reality.

Oh, _fuck_.

This is really happening. It isn’t a fantasy you’ve created or a roleplay scenario you’re acting out. Brahms has actually killed people. Three that you know of.

You’re frozen, your clothes held out in front as a last form of protection between you and the unknown. He must sense your hesitation, his head cocks to the side and his gaze is like a physical presence tracing your every curve even though you still can’t see his eyes you _feel_ it.

Your body and mind are warring with each other and you feel bile nearly start to rise in your throat, overwhelmed. It isn’t until you try taking a half step back that Brahms reacts sensing your hesitation.  His hand clamps down hard around your wrist and you let out a startled yelp dropping your pants.

Brahms must be warring within himself just like you are. Part of him wants to be obedient and do as you as you say; probably just a way of gaining your trust. The other part, the part that scares you, radiates off of him in waves of lust and violence. He wants to take what he wants if you don’t play along. Even if he has to hurt you to do it.

“Brahms!” you say, sharply, with conviction you didn't know you had. His grip slackens. “You.. You promised to be a good boy, didn’t you?”

You don’t sound confident at all; your voice trembles no matter how hard you try to stop it. He still doesn’t let go so you try again.

“Didn’t you?”

_“..yes.”_

You lick your lips, “I want you to show me what feels good, Brahms. Do you understand?”

You’re stalling now and you know it. It’s bad enough how awkward you feel playing into his strange behavior and speaking as if he were a child. Worse still how even that is getting you even _more_ excited.

But God how you want to just give in and relieve the ache. It only gets worse when Brahms nods, once, and does as you say taking himself in hand.

He doesn’t let go of you so you’re forced to stand right over him not allowing any distance between the two of you. His panting turns to soft growls as he lets his head fall to the side so that the angle of the light changes. Your cunt throbs when you see that he’s staring directly into your eyes while he masturbates. It’s so erotically perverse you forget how to breathe.

You can still see the old bloodstains on the mask. Black against white.

His pupils are so wide there’s hardly any iris visible. It’s all too much, too close to what you’ve always imagined, and too fucking _real_.

Your free hand comes up to touch your breast, kneading the flesh and rubbing your nipple with your palm. Your skin is hyper-sensitive by now and even through your bra and shirt the friction feels good enough that your mouth hangs open a little. Brahms’ fingers are still tightly clamped around your wrist as you slip your other hand down to your cunt, past your lips until you find the right spot and begin working your clit in time with his strokes.

You move your shirt and bra up out of the way so you’re fully exposed to Brahms’ unrelenting stare.

“Touch me,” you whisper, needing to feel his rough hands on you. He finally lets go of your wrist, calloused fingers moving to your hip instead, his thumb digging into your flesh hard enough to bruise.

As expected he isn’t gentle in the way that he grabs at you; like a man starved for contact. His attentions are almost painful, gripping your breast hard, pinching and pulling at your nipples until you’re wincing and have to brace yourself against his chest. Brahms’ heart hammers beneath your hand wildly. This close the coppery hints of blood that mingle beneath the scent of his sweat are much stronger. The scent of death. A constant reminder that he could easily kill you at any time and has killed before.

You can’t deny it’s intoxicating; the mixture of fear and arousal this gives you is so much better than anything you’ve ever felt before.

Suddenly, Brahms jerks you into his lap, shoving against the small of your back so that you fall forward into him until your bodies are flush. His cock bumps your ass where you’ve landed and your cheek is against porcelain. Skin against skin.

_“Please..”_

Any of Brahms’ child-like pretenses have dissolved along with your restraint. His voice has gone low and needy in a way that twists your gut. You reach behind yourself sliding his erection into the cleft of your ass, grinding up and down, fucking him with the tunnel you’ve created with your hand on one side.

You stop only long enough to spit in your palm spreading it over him so the glide is smoother. Brahms’ needy, animalistic growls fill your ears and you know that you’re frustrating him by still not giving in and just fucking him.

You're frustrating yourself.

However, he actually retaliates catching you off guard when he slips a hand between your bodies seeking out your clit.

“Brahms..!” you manage to choke out somehow, but that only serves to spur him on. When those two fingers on your sensitive nub move further down and plunge inside you _really_ lose it. You fuck yourself into his hand angling your hips to get the right angle while his cock still presses into your ass so hot and swollen.

Your pants turn to moans as you lose control of your voice and without thinking you hook your arm around behind Brahms’ neck, your face still next to his pulling you closer together. Through your haze you feel Brahms’ arm against your back and his hand tentatively coming to rest at the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair.

An intimate gesture you don’t even have time to react to before you’re coming with a loud cry, your inner walls squeezing at Brahms’ fingers.

You’re only allowed a moment’s respite before you’re being shoved to the side still in a daze. You’re unable to do anything but go along with how Brahms pushes you face first into the couch cushion.

His hands are at your hips lifting your ass up into the air, spreading your legs, cool air hits the wetness still drying on your inner thighs. For a second you’re worried he might try to fuck your ass. With more preparation you wouldn’t have minded the idea.

You turn your face to protest, “Bra-ahh!”

You never get the chance.

You’re filled all the way to the hilt, his balls resting against your body. Your cunt is still tingling post-orgasm and take all of him easily. Your internal muscles are already fully relaxed and you’re literally dripping at this point.

You clench weakly at him from the aftershocks you're still riding out and he groans loudly.

Brahms is gripping so tightly at your thighs you know that it will bruise later and make a mental note if you live through this to not wear shorts or a skirt for a while.

He doesn’t waste any more time and fucks you brutally, snarling and dragging you back into him at every thrust. Brahms won’t last long at this rate and neither will you.

You twist around to see him better – you decide you want to see him fucking you.

Brahms is too big to fit behind you so he rests one knee on the sofa and the other leg is half-bent, his foot on the floor. His shirt is still pushed up his stomach part-way so you can see the muscles working there, letting your eyes linger as you take him in.

Brahms is watching himself fuck you; the position you’re in letting him get a clear view where you’re connected. You’re both turned on and fascinated by the strange mask and the way his hair messily falls around it. Everything is so perfect and fucked up at the same time.

When Brahms sees you watching his eyes meet yours; wild and bloodshot.

You’re going to come again your insides twitching with how close you are. It’s the first time you’ve ever had a multi orgasm with anyone.

When you do you bury your face, biting your knuckles because you want to hear Brahms come, too, and not drown it out with your own cries. He lets out a choked sound and stills inside you filling you up with wet heat; your body milking out every drop.

His hand rests to the right of you on the sofa where he’s leaned over you catching his breath.  

Not long after you very nearly pass out - if somewhat uncomfortably - trapped in Brahms’ arms. You’re too exhausted to protest.

 

You awaken sometime later and a glance at the clock on the mantle tells you that it’s 3 A.M.

You’re still tangled in Brahms’ limbs but judging from his breathing which is slow and steady, he’s still sleeping. Your eyes go to where you know the key landed in the ashes in the back of the fireplace, earlier.

Your friend will be coming in about two hours to get you and you need to be out of the house by then. You don’t need her coming in looking for you. By some miracle you manage to free yourself , cringing at the mess that spills down your leg as you stand.

That in itself is more difficult than you’d thought; your knees are wobbly and you’re a little dizzy. Still, you push on, digging your light out of your pants pocket and going in search of your prize.

Nervously, you check to see if Brahms has noticed but he doesn’t react to your absence nor your frantic search for the key. After what feels like a hundred years your fingers close around something cold and hard amidst the bits of wood and dust. Relief washes over you in a flood.

Now all you have to do is get dressed and wait.

~*~

You’ve already slipped out quiet as a cat and headed for the front door when you hear a horn blowing outside. You’d thought Brahms was still sleeping when you left him shutting and locking the door behind you.

You’d thought wrong.

_“Don’t leave me.”_

Your stomach drops like a stone at the sound of his voice from somewhere behind you. He stands in the shadows, unmoving and you wonder how someone so big can be so fucking quiet.

“I have to,” you say, softly, knowing he can hear.

 _“No!”_ he shouts, startling you into almost dropping your bag.

You're worried he might try chasing you but he must have heard the horn and knows that someone else is outside. Knowing that he could be discovered holds him back.

“If I don’t then more police will come here and they’ll find you, Brahms. I’m sorry.” You shouldn’t feel as guilty as you do yet you can’t help it. In the hours you spent awake waiting for your friend you’d thought about how tragic Brahms' story really was.

You didn’t know what had happened with the little girl back when he was still a child but what you did know was that imprisoning  your son in the walls sure as hell wouldn’t help his mental stability. Any chance he ever had at a normal life was stolen from him. Maybe that was a naive way of thinking on your part. 

Sympathy for the devil and all that.

He doesn’t say or do anything as you shut the door behind you.

 

**Epilogue - Four Months Later**

 

After what happened you couldn’t stop thinking of Brahms so you made a decision. Twice a month you brought food to the Heelshire house; a large cardboard box full. You were very careful in making sure that no one ever saw you doing this. You were also very careful to not so much as catch a glimpse of Brahms when you made your visits.

Even though a few times you saw the curtains move.

You always set the box right inside the door and left as quickly as possible. The reasoning being that you weren’t sure how he’d react to seeing you. More importantly, you didn’t know how you’d react to seeing him either. You felt guilty for avoiding him and guilty if you didn’t avoid him.

After a few months of doing this a ‘For Sale’ sign went up at the end of the drive.

You felt physically ill upon seeing it.

Your concerns were unwarranted, however, because apparently multiple murders and disappearances surrounding the place didn’t do it any favors on the market.

So it continued; the parade of delivering groceries, work, go home, repeat.

You landed the promotion you’d been after for nearly a year. The price on the Heelshire manor goes down marginally. Still no buyers.

On one of your trips you decide to take a look around inside. There’s no sign of Brahms but there are several empty boxes next to the front door. You’re both disappointed and relieved when he doesn’t appear.

You’ve tried dating since then but it never seems to work out. Hell, you even tried getting a cat but the thing shit everywhere and you ended up giving it away to a friend from work. You’re alone in an apartment that reeks of old piss and old memories that just make you sad being there.

Your best friend moved away not long after your promotion.

You think of Brahms and how everyone he’s ever known or had lived in that house had all moved away leaving him alone, too.

That’s why you’re sitting outside the mental hospital where you know the last girl that lived at the Heelshire place is being kept. You need to know. You have to understand. Though you’re not entirely sure what you’re expecting; you’re almost as nervous as when you encountered Brahms.

The guy at the front desk looks bored as you tell him that you’re a distant cousin coming to check in. He all but answers ‘whatever’ and directs you to a room just like what you’ve seen in movies or on tv.

Patients engaged in varying activities in a white room filled with little tables; coloring, playing with toys, some just staring into space. The girl you’re looking for sits by the window her eyes distant and glazed over.

“Hi,” you say.

She looks at you with a little tilt of her head. She’s very pale and there are dark circles under her eyes that you didn’t notice from across the room. She’s obviously drugged out of her mind.

“I wanted to ask you some questions,” you stammer, not really sure how to proceed. “About, uh, about Brahms..”

 _That_ gets a reaction; her eyes light up for a second and then it’s gone. “You’ve seen him,” she says. “Nobody would believe me when I tried telling the police.”

“Yes,” you confirm. “What I wanted to know is-is..”

Suddenly, it dawns on you how fucked up it all is. That you would come here to interrogate this girl over something so traumatizing just so _you_ could feel better. Just so that you could feel validated enough to make a choice that’s weighed heavily on you ever since that night.

“You want to know why,” she says, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. It creeps you out a little that she isn’t angry or telling you to fuck off. It’s what you would probably do if you were in her position.

“They were a threat,” she says, her eyes wandering back to the window. It’s raining, streaks of grey against the black of the forest that surrounds the institution.

“Brahms thought he was protecting me, I think. They were just using me until hospice could come in. None of them gave a shit about me but I think he did in his own fucked up way.”

The girl sounds thoughtful her pale hands twisting this way and that in her lap.

“But that isn’t what you really want to know is it?”

Her eyes have snapped back to yours, narrowed, almost accusing.

You swallow.

“Do I think that they _deserved_ what happened? Do I _regret_ what happened?” she smiles, shrugging indifferently. “It doesn’t really matter now does it?”

You thought about all the times you’ve almost called the police since that night. An anonymous tip to put an end to your endlessly flowing thoughts made up of guilt and lust. How many times you’ve had your phone in hand but could never bring yourself to do it.

All you could see was a little boy with a fake smile.

“Thank you for your time,” you mumble and get the hell out of there as quickly as possible.

You’re almost in the hall when you think you hear “Good luck.”

When you turn back the girl is still staring out the window.

~*~

Your hands are shaking by the time you’re back in your car. You turn on the heat to help dry yourself from being in the rain but it does little for the chill that has seeped into you. You’d wanted to understand, to shock some sense into yourself and it had almost worked.

The haunted look in the girl’s eyes was something you didn’t think you would be forgetting any time soon. Only she wasn’t haunted by guilt; what you saw there was something like longing.

Brahms had gotten under her skin just like he had yours. She’d gone mad because of it.

And so for the first week after you moved into the Heelshire house you didn’t see him even once.

But you knew that he watched you.

And followed you just out of sight.

Every night at dinner you always made enough for two leaving a plate in the fridge before going up to bed. Every morning your offering was missing; the plate left in the sink.

At last your mind can be at ease without worrying every day if another family would buy the house. You tell yourself it's because you don't want anyone else to be in put in danger if they were to move in.

The people from the agency thought you were crazy for showing an interest and you had almost laughed. Even before the most recent incident the house was rumored to be haunted and all kinds of crazy shit.

Which translated to unpopular to anyone other than yourself.

You explained that you loved horror movies and the occult and that the house’s dark history fascinated you. Not exactly a lie. Not even really sure why you felt the need to explain yourself in the first place. There was an exchange of looks as if to say “one of those” but there were no more inquiries after that.

Not that it was any of their fucking business what house you wanted to live in, after all.

By the second week Brahms came to your room after you’d called it a night. You blearily rolled over to see what time it was and caught him standing at the foot of your bed.

“Fuck!” you shouted, very nearly throwing a lamp in his direction.

He just stands there only partially visible in the moonlight that streams through the curtains painting a surrealist image. For several moments you only stare at him as does he at you; eyes hidden in shadow.

Black against white.

You ache in ways you can’t describe.

 You lie back into the pillows and pat the comforter next to you; an invitation.

“It’s okay,” you say. “Come to bed.”

Slowly, he circles around you in a way that you could only think of as predatory in the deliberate way that he moves. So silent you can’t hear his footsteps. It’s exciting and scares the hell out of you at the same time.

And then he’s with you in bed.

He nuzzles at your hair and neck inhaling your scent until you roll onto your side to face him. Your hand comes up to rest on the side of his mask, your fingertips brushing the edges of his beard. He’s trembling; practically vibrating with restrained emotion. 

_“You came back.”_

You can’t help the small smile that hearing him say that gives you.

“That’s right,” you say. “I’m home now, Brahms.”

**Author's Note:**

> I JUST WANT EVERYONE TO HAVE NICE THINGS


End file.
